


Point of No Return

by the_random_writer



Series: Separated Twins [17]
Category: Bourne (Movies), RED (Movies), The Bourne Supremacy (2004)
Genre: Brothers, Central Intelligence Agency, Crossover, Father-Son Relationship, Fatherhood, Gen, Running Away, Secrets, Separated Twins, Sisters, Twins, Unplanned Pregnancy, Video & Computer Games, fear of commitment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 03:18:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14886630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_random_writer/pseuds/the_random_writer
Summary: A crossover where William Cooper from 'RED' and Kirill from 'The Bourne Supremacy' are identical twins.Born in Berlin to an American mother and a Russian father, the twins were separated at the age of ten by their parents' divorce. William went to the United States with their mother, while Kirill went to the Soviet Union with their father.When Kirill discovers his life is about to drastically change, he reacts in a way that threatens to undo everything he's achieved in the last eighteen months.Takes place in mid December 2011.





	Point of No Return

His right hand curled around a cold beer, William flopped onto the couch, then leaned out to grab the plastic case from the table. "Okay, tell me more about this new game," he said.

It was just after six on a Friday night, and for the first time in almost a year, the two Cooper men had the house to themselves. Michelle was out for dinner with some new clients from work—a dinner to which (thankfully) other halves had not been invited—and Tatiana was having a sleepover with one of her friends. With his wife and daughter away, and CIA matters unlikely to demand his attention, what better way to pass the evening than in some quality bonding time with his son?

So here they were, armed with a bowl of Crunchy Cheetos, a Diet Coke and a Golden Pheasant, the Wii powered up and ready to go, and an extra large, all toppings pizza due to arrive in thirty to forty-five minutes.

"It's called De Blob," Andrew said, pressing some buttons on the controller to bring up the introductory screen.

William flipped the game case over to scan the blurb on the back, making sure the content and language was suitable for a nine-year-old kid. "What's it about?" he asked.

"You play De Blob. He's like, a little ball, so he rolls around. The bad guys have turned the world he lives in all grey, and it's your job to paint it and make it all colourful and exciting again."

Not a shoot 'em up, then, which was nice. He knew a few of Andrew's more mature friends were already allowed to play first-person shooters, but William wasn't ready to go there yet. Andrew was a little bit on the sensitive side—he wasn't good with scary movies or horror stories—so for now, it was best to keep him away from killing and guns.

"How does he paint things?" William asked next.

Andrew used the stick on the nunchuk extension to roll the little, grey blob on the screen toward what looked like a can of red paint. "You make him roll over some paint," which Andrew then did, causing the little grey ball to turn red. "He sucks up the paint, and then whatever he touches turns to that colour." Andrew rolled the scarlet ball into the shrivelled, dead stump of a tree; the tree popped and came back to life in a flash of funky purple and green.

"That's pretty cool," William approvingly said. Far more interesting than the shitty, old arcade games he and Kirill had played as kids in Berlin.

Andrew nodded, then pushed the ball towards another can, this one yellow instead of red. "You only have three colours, but you can mix them together to make other colours." He rolled De Blob across the can—the little ball turned from scarlet to orange.

"How do you win the game?"

"You have to beat all the bad guys."

Of course. In life or in games, wasn't that always the case? "And how do you beat them?"

"They want the world to be black and white, so you have to colour everything in." With an expert flick of his wrist, Andrew bounced the ball up onto a ledge, then sped along it, colouring everything as he moved.

"You like this game, huh?"

Andrew gave him the briefest of nods, too focused on what he was doing to speak.

"What's your favourite colour to paint with?"

"I like all of them," Andrew said. He wrinkled his nose. "Except the brown. You make that by mixing all the main colours. I don't like it when I have to use brown. It's _really_ boring."

"Not my favourite colour, either, bud. Can't fault you there."

The front doorbell binged.

William frowned as he glanced at his watch. He'd only ordered the pizza twenty minutes ago—surely it couldn't be ready yet?

"You keep rolling over the bad guys," he said, setting his beer on the coffee table. He rose from the couch, ruffling Andrew's hair as he went. "Lemme go find out who's at the door."

When he opened the door, as he'd expected, it wasn't the Papa John's delivery man.

It was Catherine McNally—his wife's younger sister—and to say she was an absolute mess was the understatement of the year. Her face was blotchy and streaked with tears, her eyes were red and puffy from crying. When she saw him, she let out a gasping cry of relief and all but stumbled into the hall.

"Jesus, Kate, come in," he said, catching her and carefully guiding her into the house. She was trembling like a newborn lamb. "Are you okay? What the hell's wrong?"

Her answer came out as a sob.

"What is it?" he asked again, beginning to feel panicked himself. "Oh, Jesus, has something happened to Kir?"

She drew in a deep racking breath, then swallowed thickly, trying to bring her tears under control. "Kirill's _gone_ ," she managed to whisper before the sobbing resumed.

"What do you mean, _gone_?" he asked, more severely than he'd intended.

She flinched slightly and pulled away.

He raised his hands, apologizing, then took a calming breath of his own. "I'm sorry. That came out sharper than I meant. It's okay. Tell me what's wrong. Let me help."

She nodded, sniffed and pulled out a wadded up tissue to wipe her tears and blow her nose. "I told Kirill something really important last night," she started in a shaky voice. "And I don't think he was ready to hear it."

William swore under his breath. He knew how scared of commitment his younger, twin brother was. If the 'something' in question was what he suspected, he could well imagine how badly that conversation had gone.

Catherine went on with her tale. "He said he would be finished by four, but when I came home from the clinic tonight, he wasn't there. I found this note on the dining room table." As she held out a folded-up piece of paper, the tears started to flow again.

William took the note from her, opened it and scanned the text. The contents made his stomach heave.

_I cannot be the man any of you want me to be. I thought I could, but I was wrong. I am so very sorry. I hope one day, you will be able to forgive me._

Jesus Christ. What reckless stunt had his idiot brother gone and pulled on everyone now?

"You said he's gone, as in gone from the house?" William asked.

Catherine nodded.

"What's missing? What did he take?"

"His duffel bag, his pendant, some shoes and clothes, some toiletries, the photo of us you took in Geneva that was stuck on the front of the fridge, his laptop computer. I checked the safe, and his passport's missing." Her expression turned sour. "So is our pack of emergency cash."

Almost ten grand, which meant he wasn't taking a few nights away.

"What about his wallet and phone? And his house and motorbike keys? Did he leave those?" The answers would help him to understand where and how Kirill was trying to run.

"Everything," Kate said. "Including his credit and debit cards. They were all on the table with the letter. Even his Langley security pass."

Oh, man. This was _bad_.

Kirill was running away all right, and running for good, not just from Kate, but from him and the CIA as well.

William could feel his anger rising. Stupid goddamn idiot brother, flushing his goddamn life down the john just because he couldn't deal with his feelings. "You told him you loved him, didn't you?" he asked, smiling softly to let Kate know she wasn't to blame. "That would put the fear of God in him, for sure."

Kate started crying again. "It's so much worse than that," she whispered.

"What the hell did you tell him, then?"

"You remember the weekend back in October when the six of us went to visit our parents?"

"Yeah?"

"And the whole, uh, midnight incident with our father's desk?"

The infamous Napoleon desk, on which Andrew had been conceived. "What about it?"

She laughed—a bitter and fragile sound. "Let's just say that, sometimes, lightning actually does strike twice."

"You're _pregnant_ ," William whispered, feeling his blood drain into his toes.

She held a hand to her still-flat stomach. "Doc says I'm almost ten weeks."

No wonder Kirill had gone on the run. He'd been nervous enough about him and Kate buying a house and moving in, and usually turned sullen and sharp whenever anyone raised the topic of marriage and kids. William was fairly sure the problem wasn't that Kirill didn't care about Kate—he just needed to figure out where and how to take the next step, at his own pace and in his own time.

But now, suddenly, out of the blue, before he'd even addressed the topic of marriage, fatherhood was beckoning to him?

It was an explanation, but not an excuse.

Kirill must surely know that Kate would _never_ consider not having and keeping the baby, so he'd effectively abandoned her to raise their child on her own. Considering what their own father had done to their mother and them, and the decades of pain those actions had caused, his brother's decision to run away was an almost-unforgivable sin.

"That's great news," he said to Kate, keeping his anger and thoughts to himself. He pulled her close to give her a hug. "I know you're scared, but it'll be okay. I promise. We'll find Kirill and bring him home. We'll sort this out."

Kate sniffed and gave him the faintest of smiles.

Footsteps approached, then Andrew appeared, still holding the Wii nunchuk and remote. He beamed as he saw his aunt, then frowned when he realized she was crying.

"Hey, A-man," Catherine croaked, forcing a more welcoming smile. "How's my favourite nephew doing?"

"I'm fine," Andrew said, his hazel eyes flitting from one tense adult to the other. His frown deepened. "Why are you crying? Is everything okay? Did somebody do something bad?"

Trust a nine-year-old kid to aim straight for the heart of the matter…

William nodded. "Somebody did something bad, and your Aunt KitKat's really upset," he said. He didn't want to lie to his son, but given the 'somebody' in question was Kirill, he couldn't tell him the whole truth, either. "I know I promised tonight would be for us to play through your game, but she needs my help to sort it all out."

Andrew shrugged and smiled. "It's okay," he said, taking the sudden change of plans in his stride. "It's just a video game. We can try it out next weekend instead. I don't mind."

William felt his heart quietly break. Jesus, he was such a good kid.

"Why don't you take your Aunt KitKat next door to show her your game, gimme a minute to track down your mom?"

Andrew nodded and held out a hand.

Kate looked to William, crying again. "Please find him," she whispered. "Please tell him he doesn't need to run, that I love him, and that whatever else happens, we can figure this out." She took Andrew's hand and followed him through to the lounge.

Okay, where to start.

As always, with Michelle. If he had to focus on finding Kirill, he needed her here to hold down the fort.

He pulled out his phone to send her a text. _Family emergency, need you to come home right now_ , he told her. Then, knowing what she would instantly take that message to mean, he added, _Don't panic, the kids are fine_.

Her answer wasn't long in coming. _On my way_ , was all it said. That was his other half to a 't'—as cool as an ice cube in winter and as reliable as the rising sun. How the _hell_ would he ever manage without her?

One immediate problem solved, half a dozen more problems to go.

He thumbed through his Contacts list until he found the name he needed, then pressed the button to open a call. It rang out half a dozen times—long enough to make his heart pound.

On the seventh ring, someone finally picked up. "Lewis," a woman's voice stiffly said.

"Hey, Brenna, it's William Cooper."

The stiffness vanished. "Billy boy, how the _hell_ are you doing? Never mind that. How's your beautiful wife?"

"We're both good. How about you? Life treating you well?"

"My little girl's moving away for school, my car needs a new transmission, and my right elbow hurts when it rains, but apart from that, I can't complain."

"Everything with the new boss okay?"

"So far, yeah. Seems like a nice enough guy." She paused. "But I'm pretty sure that isn't why you're calling tonight."

"It isn't, no. I have a serious problem, and I need your help."

Brenna went into business mode. "I'm all yours. What can I do?"

"I need you to run a name through the airline passenger manifest system." He hesitated before making his second request. "And I need you to archive the search audit record."

He heard her sharp intake of breath. "Jesus, Billy, that's a _hell_ of a favour. You know as well as I do that archiving a search audit record's almost a whipping offence."

"I wouldn't be asking a favour that big if it wasn't almost a life or death matter."

That wasn't even overstating the situation—if the Company found out Kirill had gone on the run, it would either send out a terminate order, or far more likely, advise the Russians of his location, then cut him loose and leave him to fend off his former employers. Kirill was pretty good on the streets, but without the CIA's protection, even he would be lucky to last a week.

"Can you do it?" William asked.

Brenna puffed out a heavy sigh. "It's a good thing I like you as much as I do, Billy. If it was anyone else, I'd already have put down the phone."

"If anyone finds out what you've done, send them to me. I'll take the whipping for you. You have my word."

"Okay, tell me what name you want me to check."

"Kirill Orlov," William said.

"Wait a minute, isn't that—"

"Yes, it is," he interrupted. "Please don't ask. It's complicated. I just need you to run the name."

Thankfully, Brenna was savvy enough to know when she shouldn't pry. "Where do you want me to check?" she asked.

"Marshall, Reagan and Dulles," William replied, focusing on the three major hubs that were easy to reach from his younger brother's home. If that didn't work, he would ask her to check the smaller and further out airports, and maybe even the Hyde Field Executive Airpark as well.

"Date of birth?" Brenna asked next.

"Twenty-fourth of May nineteen-seventy-two."

"Travelling on a US passport?"

"Yes."

He'd shredded all of Kirill's fake passports during the trip to Geneva a few months before, so his legal, authentic, US credentials would be his twin's only option, now.

"Don't suppose you know his passport number?"

"Sorry, I don't."

"Lemme run the name and the date, see what comes up. Can't imagine we're gonna find more than one or two Kirill Orlovs going on vacation right now." Something came up a few seconds later. "Bingo," Brenna announced.

"What did you find?"

"We have _two_ Kirill Orlovs flying tonight," she said. "One from Marshall and one from Dulles."

"Same date of birth?"

"Same date of birth," Brenna confirmed.

It _could_ be a coincidence, but William thought that highly unlikely. The far more obvious explanation was that Kirill had purchased two separate tickets, either to keep his options open, or to throw his pursuers off his trail.

"Where are they going?" he asked.

"The flight from Marshall is heading to London Gatwick. Departure time of eight-fifteen."

William glanced at the clock on the shelf—it was coming up on twenty past six. The drive to Marshall took almost an hour, plus, he would have to park and find his brother inside the building, and boarding would start thirty to forty-five minutes before. If he was heading there, he would have to leave now.

But London just didn't make sense. It was too accessible to the CIA, which was on extremely friendly terms with the British Special Intelligence Service, and more importantly, it was far too close to Moscow for comfort. You couldn't throw a stone in the city without hitting a billionaire Russian émigré or would-be, modern-day defector. If Kirill tried to hide himself there, both the Lubyanka and Langley would know almost as soon as his plane touched down.

"What about the flight out of Dulles? Where's that one going?"

"Lemme check." More clicking and clacking. "That one's heading to Caracas in Venezuela, with a one-hour stop in Panama City. Scheduled to leave at nine on the nose."

Bingo.

Out of the two, Venezuela was the more obvious choice. Not only was it far more welcoming to Russians than London, it was also far more hostile to Americans and the CIA. William himself had long since decided that, if he ever needed to disappear, South America was where he would go.

"That's the one," he said to Brenna. "The flight out of Marshall's a bluff. The Dulles flight is the one I want."

"You want me to have him pulled from the plane?' Brenna asked.

He shook his head, not that Brenna could see. "That would make it an official security matter, and I'd rather keep this on the QT. I'll head to Dulles, find him, pull him from the flight myself."

"Just leave your work credentials at home," Brenna warned. "We might be a government security and intelligence agency, but you have no more law enforcement authority than some random guy on the street. You show them your card, the TSA'll laugh and throw it back in your face."

"I'll figure something out. I used to serve with a guy who works in the Security Operations team. Worst case scenario, I'll buy another seat on the plane." He fished his passport out of the drawer.

"Go get him, marine," Brenna said. "I'll archive the search audit record, cover your tracks from here."

"Thanks, Brenn. I owe you one."

He heard a snort. "You owe me _way_ more than one, Billy boy. Good luck."

The line went dead—Brenna was gone.

As he pulled on his coat, he heard a key turn in the door. He stuck his head out, and there was Michelle. Jesus. She must have driven at ninety all the way.

"What's wrong?" she said, marching into the office.

"Kate turned up ten minutes ago, crying her eyes out, asking for help."

"Why? What happened?"

He paused before speaking again. Had Kate shared her personal news with Mike? "Did you know she's pregnant?"

To his relief, Michelle nodded. "I went to the ultrasound appointment with her."

"When was that?"

"Wednesday morning. She was really excited, but terrified about telling Kirill."

With very good reason, as it turned out. "She told him last night. When she came home from work today, he was gone."

"What does she mean, _gone_?"

"He's obviously shitting himself about becoming a father, so he's running away."

Her eyes went wide. "Oh, God," she murmured, her hand darting to her throat. "But you can stop him, can't you?"

"I think so, yeah. I'm pretty sure he's heading to Dulles to catch a flight." He waved his passport at her. "I'm taking this, driving there now."

"Where's Kate?"

"In the living room with Andrew. She's a bit of a mess. She could probably use some tea and a hug."

Michelle shooed him towards the door. "I'll take care of Andrew and Kate. You go find Kirill. Bring him home."

He leaned in to give her a kiss, grabbed his car keys and made for the door.

 

********************

 

The doors parted at William's approach.

He marched into the terminal building, paused to orient himself, then made a beeline for the nearest departure information board. He scanned the list, looking for a flight to Caracas. He found it at the ninth entry down—a Copa Airlines flight with one stop in Panama City, scheduled to leave from gate A19.

 _On Time_ , the flashing status bar said.

He moved to another board with an interactive terminal map to locate the main Security Office. He muttered a colourful curse in Russian as he saw it was all the way at the other end of the building.

He started walking, dodging around bodies and cases, carefully scanning the hall as he went. There was always a chance, however remote, that he would accidentally bump into his brother out here next to the check-in desks.

Two minutes later, he strode through the Security Office door.

A uniformed woman behind the main desk smiled warily as he approached. "Hey, there," she said. "How you doing? Something I can help you with?"

He smiled back. "There is, yeah. By any chance, is Aaron Fernandez on duty tonight?"

Aaron was an old friend from the Corps—they'd gone through the MESG Quantico training course together—but they hadn't spoken for almost a year. The last time they'd talked, Aaron had just taken a job at Dulles, as a Security Operations Lead. If he was still in the role, and if by some miracle, he was actually working tonight, finding Kirill would be a much easier task.

The Gods smiled, and so did the woman. "He is, yeah. He's just in the back."

"Could you tell him William Cooper is here?" Her smile started to fade. "It's okay. He knows me. It won't be a problem."

"Sure thing, just gimme a minute." She swiped her card to open the door into the secure room at the back. Two minutes later, she re-appeared with Aaron trailing along behind.

His old friend grinned as he strolled around the end of the counter. "William goddamn fucking Cooper," he said, extending a welcoming hand. "Jesus, are you a sight for sore eyes."

William grabbed and shook the hand. "Good to see you too, bud." He gestured around the room. "How you liking the job? Last time we spoke, you were only a few weeks in, hadn't quite figured everything out."

"It's okay. Pay's not as good as what I'd be getting if I'd stayed on in the Corps, but nobody makes me do drill duty at ass o'clock in the goddamn morning, and there's less of a chance of me getting shot. What about you?" Aaron asked. "You still chasing terrorists for the CIA?"

"I'm just an analyst," William lied. "If I chase terrorists, it's from behind a desk. I leave the dangerous stuff to the younger men."

Aaron tsk'ed and shook his head. "That's what happens when you take an office job, man. One minute, you're a badass marine who can kill a guy just by thinking about it, then, before you know it, the only thing you can kill is time."

"And donuts," William added. "I'm pretty good at killing donuts as well."

The woman giggled.

"So, what brings you to my office tonight?" Aaron asked. "And please don't tell me it's cus you noticed someone out in the hall doing something kinda suspicious. It's Friday night, and I _really_ want to be home by nine."

William shook his head. "Something much simpler than that." He hesitated, wondering how much to share with his friend. Aaron wasn't such a close buddy that William had ever told him about his twin, so naturally, he hadn't shared the news of his and Kirill's reunion, either. Opening that can of worms might not be a good idea, especially since he was pushed for time. Better to lie, but to stay as close as he could to the truth.

"It's a work thing," he said. "There's a flight to Caracas leaving from gate A19 at nine. One of the passengers is, uh, a person of interest in a thing I'm running. I need to talk to him before he leaves."

"What is it you think I can do to help?" Aaron asked, frowning slightly.

"I was hoping you could escort me into the secure area at the gate. Let me find him, have that talk, then when I'm done, escort me back out."

"You have to know I can't do that, Coop," Aaron said, sympathetic. "I'd like to help, but I'd be breaking every rule in the book."

"You know I'm good for it. I won't give you any trouble."

Aaron sighed, then slowly shook his head. "Sorry, man. I just can't. Be different if you were wearing a badge, but the CIA has no legal authority here." His frown deepened. "But you know that as well as I do. If this is a work-related request, why the hell are you even here? Why didn't you call over to Hoover to have them send out an FBI guy instead?"

Dammit. He'd been hoping Aaron wouldn't ask about that. "It's complicated."

"Jesus, Cooper, when is it _not_?"

"Five minutes," William pleaded, holding up a spread-fingered hand. "That's all I need."

His supplications fell on deaf ears. "Be more than my job's worth to even consider it," Aaron said. "Sorry, bud, I'd love to help, but my answer's no."

William rubbed his chin, trying to decide what to do next. This would have been the easiest option, but he couldn't force his old friend from the Corps to do something he wasn't willing or able to do.

Aaron threw him a line. "I _can't_ take you into the secure area," he reiterated, "but I _can_ call the desk at the gate, have them page your person of interest for you. Would that help?"

Damn right it would. "Can you call them from here?"

"Sure. What gate did you say again?"

"A19. Copa Airlines."

Aaron pulled a phone from under the desk, placed it on the counter between them, jabbed the button for Hands-Free mode then dialled an internal extension number.

After five rings, someone picked up. "Copa Airlines," a woman with a faint accent said.

"Evening, ma'am, this is Aaron Fernandez from the Security Operations group out in the main terminal building. I was wondering, would you be able to page one of your passengers for me?"

"A passenger on Flight 403 to Caracas?"

"Yes, ma'am, that's the one."

"Of course," the woman said. "What is the passenger's name?"

Aaron looked up, eyebrows raised.

William leaned into the phone. "The passenger's name is Kirill Orlov."

"Could you spell the last name for me?"

"Sure, yeah. That's Oscar, Romeo, Lima, Oscar, Victor."

"One moment, please. Let me check if Mister Orlov has arrived." The woman placed the call on hold; colourful music filled the room. She came back twenty seconds later. "I'm sorry, but I'm afraid the passenger still hasn't checked in. He won't be in the departure concourse yet."

That was something William hadn't considered. No matter—it should make tracking his brother down easier than he'd previously thought. "How long until check-in closes?" he asked.

"Passengers travelling with bags must arrive at the check-in desk no less than ninety minutes before departure," the woman replied, reciting the standard airline spiel. "If the gentleman has no bags to check in, he must present himself at the gate at least forty-five minutes before departure instead."

"Thank you, ma'am, you've been a great help."

"You're very welcome. Have a good night."

"You too."

Aaron jabbed the End Call button and stuck the phone back under the desk. "If I were you, I'd get my ass back into the hall. You track down your guy _before_ he checks in, you can chat with him as much as you want."

"Thanks, bud. I owe you one."

Aaron waved him away. "Let's call it even for you saving my ass on the Hostage Negotiation course." He jerked his chin towards the door. "Now quit talking, and go find your man."

 

********************

 

Five minutes later, William was retracing his steps through the massive departure hall, scanning the overhead counter signs as he went.

United, Lufthansa, Austrian, Air Canada, IcelandAir, Alaska, JetBlue. Jesus, was there an airline this building _didn't_ support? Turkish, SAS, Air France, KLM, Korean Air, and there, _finally_ , right at the end of the centre section, three monitors in a row displaying the Copa Airlines logo.

He scanned the economy check-in queue—no more than a dozen people—looking for anyone who resembled his twin.

Nothing.

Kirill wasn't there.

Dammit. Had he missed Kirill coming and going while he was making his way back to the hall from the main security office? That seemed unlikely, given that queueing and checking in usually took at least ten minutes, but if Kirill wasn't already in the building, he was cutting the deadline awfully close.

Maybe that was his brother's game—checking in at the very last minute, knowing William would be on his tail, and would therefore ask a Company friend to keep an electronic eye on his ticket.

Or, maybe Kirill wasn't coming to Dulles at all. Maybe his instincts had been all wrong, and Kirill was sitting pretty at Marshall, waiting to board the Gatwick plane.

His phone vibrated in his pocket. He wrangled it out to see who was calling, praying it wasn't someone from work, but it was only a text from Michelle.

 _Any luck?_ she wanted to know.

 _Not yet_ , he quickly typed back. _Still looking. He hasn't checked in. Watching the queue._

_Keep us posted._

_Will do._

As he typed, he turned away, intending to find a seat at the back of the hall with a clear view of the Copa desks. He wasn't quite watching where he was going, and smacked right into someone joining the end of the line.

"Excuse me," William said. He looked up to smile and make it clear the error was his—

—and found himself eye to eye with his twin.

Anger flashed across Kirill's face, quickly replaced by panic and fear. "Viko," he murmured. "How—"

William brought up a hand, instantly cutting his brother off. "You don't get to talk," he said, fighting to keep his emotions under control. "For the next five minutes, you get to listen. You understand?"

Kirill nodded, holding his ground.

"I know you're still not sure how you feel about Kate. I know how much commitment scares you. I know you don't really want to be responsible for anyone but yourself. I know you're probably shitting a brick at the thought of having a kid. I know running away seems like the simple solution, but trust me when I say that it isn't."

William paused to let his words sink in.

"You get on that plane, you solve all of your current problems. No commitments, no responsibilities, no figuring out how to be a good husband and father. But you're a goddamn fucking _idiot_ if you don't realize that running away will cause a whole new bunch of problems instead. Big problems. _Huge_ problems. Problems that'll make figuring out women, weddings and babies look like a goddamn walk on the beach. You remember what the Company lawyers told us, back at that meeting in August last year, when we finally found out they weren't sending you back to Russia?"

Kirill glowered at him, but nodded again.

"They told you then that they want five years. That's the _minimum_ you're expected to give before you can quit to do something else. Right now, you're not even two years in. As soon as they find out what you've done, that you've reneged on the deal, they're gonna write your sorry ass off, cut you loose, cancel the US passport they gave you, leave you swinging in the wind."

Time to crank the threats to the max. Not that he was making them up—he knew from firsthand experience _exactly_ how far some angry CIA lawyers would go.

"They'll tell the Russians _where_ you are, and the Venezuelans _what_ you are, make it clear it's open season, then throw you to the goddamn wolves. You won't even be able to drop your pants to sit on the john without looking over your shoulder first. You run now, you'll be running for the rest of your life, just like Nikki Parsons and Jason Bourne." He paused again. "Is that what you _really_ want?"

"I have friends in Venezuela."

"No, you have _contacts_ in Venezuela," William corrected. "We both know those are two very different things. Any friendship they feel for you will vanish as soon as the CIA money appears. They'll sell you down the goddamn river without so much as breaking a sweat."

"I cannot stay in America, Viko. I _have_ to go."

"Why?"

Kirill dropped his eyes to the floor. "I thought that I could be like you, buy a house, buy a car, do a normal, boring job, have a normal, boring life." He shook his head. "I realize now that I was very wrong, and that normal is something I cannot be. It will be better for everyone if I leave."

"That's not what Kate thinks."

"She will find someone else. Someone nicer and better than me."

"She doesn't _want_ someone else," William almost shouted. "She'd rather have the best version of _you_. For Christ's sake, Kir, she _loves_ you. And did you forget the part where she's having your kid?"

Kirill went completely still. "I don't want to talk about that."

"I don't give a _shit_ what you want. This isn't about you! This is about the people you're leaving behind. People who care about you. People who _love_ you. Yeah, Kate might find someone else. Eventually. Once she's had a chance to heal and feels like climbing back in the ring. What about your kid? Are you expecting them to go out and find another father as well?" He flapped his arms. "Jesus, Kir, you of all people should understand what it's like to grow up without one of your parents around. You'd rather cut off your own balls than admit it, but it's obvious as hell to anyone with half a clue that you've still got all kinds of abandonment issues from mom. Just the way I still have them from dad. And now you're gonna do the same thing to your own son or daughter?"

Silence was his brother's response.

"And what about me?" William asked, unconsciously raising his voice. "What am _I_ supposed to do? Go to the nearest goddamn store to look for a replacement brother?"

A woman near the end of the queue with two young children at her side cleared her throat and raised her brows, silently asking him to watch his language and please keep the volume down.

William nodded at her, apologizing, then grabbed Kirill by the elbow and marched him towards a row of seats at the other side of the hall, well away from security guards and sensitive ears.

Kirill snatched his arm away, then dropped his duffel bag on a seat. "Until two years ago, you thought I was dead."

"So, what, I'm just supposed to forget you exist, go back to how things used to be?" William stepped back as if he'd been slapped. "That's what you're going to do, isn't it?" he murmured, finally seeing his brother's plan. "You're going to run off to Venezuela, pretend the last two years never happened, pick up your old life from where you left off. Aren't you?"

"Yes."

There was no hint of embarrassment in the response, no shame, no regret, no attempt to excuse it or cover it up, just a cold, calm statement of fact.

William's tolerance snapped. He pulled the apology letter out of his pocket, crumpled it up and threw it right in his brother's face. "You know what? Fuck you and your goddamn feelings. Get on that fucking plane. Go to goddamn Venezuela. Go back to killing innocent people for a living, and trying to drink and fuck yourself to death. If you really think that's the best way to live, you don't deserve what you're leaving behind. You don't deserve to be with someone as good as Kate, you don't deserve to be a father, you don't deserve to be an uncle, and you sure as shit don't deserve to be my brother."

He picked up the duffel, threw it along the floor, then waved Kirill towards the desk. "Get the fuck out of here, and don't ever come back. You do you, or whatever the fuck it is people say. Mike and I will take care of the baby. We'll take care of _everything_. Just like we took care of you, when you couldn't even take care of yourself."

He turned away, trying not to cry, shaking with rage, unconsciously making fists with his hands.

After everything the two of them had gone through together. The emotional stress of their shocking and traumatic reunion, conducted right under the CIA's gaze. The strain of gradually getting to know each other as men, of filling in a thirty-year gap, of building their fraternal relationship all over again, all while waiting for the Company's lawyers to decide what Kirill's future would be.

And now, at the very first sign of trouble, Kirill was simply giving up and walking away?

Asshole.

Selfish, stupid, pathetic, two-faced, lying, miserable, ignorant _asshole_.

William started to walk, heading towards the door that led to the covered parkade.

But Kirill wasn't done with him yet. "It is not as simple as that," he shouted out, sounding angry and desperate at the same time.

William turned back, blinking his tears away. "What isn't?'

"Why I am leaving," Kirill explained. "It is not just about getting married, or because Katenka is having a child."

"What is it, then?"

Kirill paused, finding the words, then said, "You are not wrong, Viko. I _am_ scared. More scared than I have ever been in my life." His voice broke. "But not for me."

"The hell are you—" William broke off, grasping what his brother meant. "You're scared for Kate and the kid," he wearily concluded. "Because of what you used to be."

Kirill went to retrieve his bag, then knelt to collect the discarded letter. He smoothed it out and stuck it in his coat pocket. "When I said that I cannot be the man everybody wants me to be, I was not only talking about being a good husband and father." he said. "I was also talking about being a good _man_. The kind of man who does not expose his loved ones to harm simply by being a part of their lives, because of who he is and the terrible things he has done."

"You're worried someone or something from your past is gonna come back to haunt you." An issue William had often worried about himself, especially since the Stanton affair. So far, he'd gotten away with killing his boss, but enough people knew what he'd done that there was still a risk of him being found out.

"Yes."

"And if it does, whoever comes to do the haunting will now be able to get to you through Kate and the kid."

"I don't want them to suffer for my mistakes."

"I understand," William said. His mood turned darker again. "But running away's a _shitty_ solution."

"Shitty, but safe."

"Why's it only a problem now? Did my family and I not count as loved ones as well?"

Kirill refused to take the bait. "It is not the same."

"You're right, it isn't," William admitted. "It's different when the wife and kids are your own." He forced his temper down, trying to stick to logic and facts. "But there are other ways to deal with the risks. The Company should be able to help. It tends to get a bit hot and bothered under the collar when people take pot-shots at its employees or their spouses and kids. Especially when those people were sent by a hostile foreign power."

"That would reduce the risk, but if I leave, there would be no risk at all."

"There's no such thing as a life without risk. Or, at least, not a life worth living. You want zero risk, you might as well go home and stick your head in the goddamn oven."

Kirill scrunched his face. "I thought you had a convection oven?"

"I do, but that's not the point." His tone was sharp, but underneath, William was glad of the slightly humorous moment. Anything to prevent him and Kirill coming to blows at the back of the terminal hall. Wouldn't Aaron love to see that?

Speaking of blows—it was time to load another round.

"You don't have to deal with this by yourself. I know you prefer to solve your problems on your own, but that's only because you're not used to having people in your life you can depend on and trust."

Kirill gave him a sullen glare then went back to watching the floor.

William ducked, forcing Kirill to meet his gaze, trying to persuade his twin to do the right thing through sheer force of willpower alone. "The Company has people who can help with any security problems. And so do I," he added, thinking about Frank and the gang. "Let them help. Let _me_ help. Please." He laid a hand on Kirill's shoulder and gave it a reassuring squeeze. "C'mon, _brat_. What else are older, twin brothers for?"

"I don't want to hurt anyone," Kirill whispered, full of doubt and pain.

"You say that, but you're hurting _all_ of us if you leave. Kate, me, Michelle. Even the kids." He smirked slightly. "You think Tatiana and Andrew want to go back to not having an idiot uncle as well as an idiot aunt?"

That brought the faintest of smiles. "I _would_ miss them," Kirill admitted.

"And they would miss you. Especially Tatiana. You're the only person she's ever known who's been even _remotely_ willing to listen to her suggestion of keeping a spider as a pet." Thankfully, a suggestion that had never actually come to fruition—she'd decided to ask for a hamster instead.

Time to add more pressure again.

"Kir, I know you're scared, and I know your life's about to get way more complicated than you think you can handle, but trust me when I say you're going to be fine. The CIA can help with any security issues, and Mike and I will be there to help you with the family stuff. Between the four of us, we'll figure it out."

Kirill nodded, but out of politeness or because he agreed?

Time to find out.

"Check-in closes in twenty-five minutes," William murmured, tapping the face of his watch. "If you're gonna get on that flight to Caracas, you should probably think about joining the queue."

Kirill huffed and mumbled something at him.

"Sorry, what was that?"

"I said I am not going to Caracas."

"You sure?"

A sigh. "Yes."

Relief flooded through William's limbs. The battle was over, even if the war wasn't won. Suddenly, he felt dizzy and sick. He lowered himself into one of the chairs and leaned forward, hanging his head, resting his elbows on his knees.

" _Bozhe moi_ , Viko, are you unwell?" Kirill asked, claiming another seat.

William nodded, not quite able to speak.

"I am sorry, _brat_ ," Kirill said. "I truly did not mean to hurt you. I truly thought I was doing the right thing."

"That's because you're a fucking idiot." The dizziness and nausea passed.

"Are you still angry with me?"

"Course I am," William retorted. He held up a hand as Kirill started to speak. "But apologizing again won't help. I know you're sorry. I just need a couple of days to think about what happened tonight. I'll be fine." He snorted. "Besides, I'm not the person you should be worrying about."

Kirill let out a quiet groan. "Katenka," he murmured. "She is going to rip me limb from limb, then feed my remains to the neighbour's dogs."

"Can you blame her?"

"No."

"My advice would be to shut the fuck up, let her get it out of her system, then, once she's finished screaming and shouting and throwing plates and knives at your head, _that's_ the time to sit down and talk."

"Is she likely to turn violent?" Kirill asked, eyes going wide in alarm.

William shrugged. "No idea. You're the one who's lived with her for almost a year. You tell me."

"I actually have no idea, either. We have not had a very serious argument yet." A trace of a lecherous smile. "Just silly fights we usually finish in bed."

"First time for everything, I guess."

"You have the letter I left on the table, which I assume means she came to your house?"

"She did, yeah."

Kirill paused, unsure of himself, then asked, "What did she say? When she turned up?"

"She said to tell you that she loves you, that you don't have to run away, and that whatever else happens, the two of you can figure it out."

His brother had no response for that.

William checked his watch. "We should probably go. Don't mean to sound uncaring, but I valet-parked to save on time, and they charge an arm and a leg by the hour. We stay here much longer, I'm gonna need you to raid your bundle of cash. Unless there's something else you still want to discuss?"

"There is one other thing."

"What's that?"

"I want Katenka to understand _exactly_ why I did what I did."

"Yeah?"

"Which would mean telling her the truth about who and what I used to be."

William sucked in a breath. "That's a… very interesting idea."

"You don't approve?"

"I just want you to consider what being so honest with her could do. Honesty's usually a good thing, but sometimes, _especially_ when you're in our line of work, it ends up doing more harm than good."

"You think she would take the news badly," Kirill concluded. "Decide she would rather raise our child on her own than be with a man who used to kill people for money."

"She's a doctor, Kir. She's spent the last sixteen years of her life learning how to keep death at bay. She might have trouble reconciling what you did for a living in Russia with her professional obligations."

Kirill sighed. "There is that, yes."

"You might not know it to talk to her, but Kate's a far more pragmatic person than Mike. She's travelled way more, and she's seen a lot of shit on her job, so accepts the world's an imperfect place. She knows you served in the army in Russia, so deep down, she probably suspects your history isn't squeaky clean, but I'm not sure even she could cope with just how muddy it actually is."

"My past is behind me," Kirill declared. "I am a very different person, now."

"I don't doubt you. But Kate might."

Kirill turned thoughtful again. "I assume that means you would never reveal to your wife what _your_ work duties really involve?"

"Not a chance. She's a strong, intelligent, rational, reasonable woman, and I love her more than anyone else in the world, but that's something she doesn't needs to know."

"Then neither does Kate," Kirill conceded.

William breathed a sigh of relief—another sticky situation averted. Kirill had every right to tell his girlfriend the truth, but the girlfriend in question would almost certainly share what she found out with her sister, and that sister happened to be his own wife. As cowardly as it sounded, sticking to the 'official' story made things much safer and simpler for everyone involved.

"What _do_ I tell her, then?" Kirill asked. "If I cannot tell her the truth?"

That one was easy. "Keep the lie close to the truth. Tell her what she already believes. That you couldn't handle her news, persuaded yourself you weren't good enough for her and the baby, so you panicked and tried to run."

"What if she doesn't want me back?"

William shook his head. "It won't come to that. She told me to tell you she loves you, remember? She's gonna be pissed, but she wants you home."

"I _do_ love her as well," Kirill very quietly said.

"You ever told her that?"

"Not in so many words, no."

William felt his eyebrows climb. It was three little words—how difficult could it _really_ be? "Tonight might be a good time to start. I know you're not good at showing or talking about your emotions, and that's okay, cus when it comes down to it, neither am I, but if there's one person in the world you want to tear up the rulebook for, it's the woman who's having your kid." He got to his feet. "You ready to go face the music and put your fuck-up to rights?"

Kirill stood up and hitched his duffel bag over his shoulder. "I am, yes." He hesitated. "But I don't want to go back to your house. I appreciate what you have done tonight, but I think I need to face the music and put my fuck-up to rights on my own."

"You want to head to your place instead? Have Kate meet us there?"

"Yes. Or, if she not up to making the trip, could Michelle do the driving for her?"

William pulled out his phone again to send his wife a situation report, and to check if she was good with the plan. _Found Kirill, talked him in from the ledge. I'm taking him home. Can you drive Kate in her car, meet us there?_

 _Thank God_ , was her almost instant reply. She must have been watching her phone like a hawk. _Not coming back here?_

_No. Kirill knows he's really messed up. Wants to talk to Kate by himself._

_That's fair._ A pause. _We're heading out now. Meet you both there._ A few seconds later, _Tell Kirill to be ready to beg._

William couldn't help but smile. _He's ready. Love you. See you soon._

 

********************

 

Traffic around the airport was light—the journey to Kate and Kirill's place only took them thirty-five minutes. When they pulled up outside, the kitchen and living room lights were on, and Kate's Audi was parked in the drive.

William killed the ignition, pulled on the brake and tooted the horn. They'd agreed on the way that only Kirill would go into the house, and that he would wait in the car for Michelle. There was no good reason for the Coopers to witness what would probably be an extremely tense and emotional scene.

Beside him, Kirill sighed. "I really made a mess of this, didn't I?"

"You did, yeah. But not so bad that it can't be fixed. At the end of the day, that's all that matters."

Up at the house, the front door opened—Andrew and his mother emerged.

"Watch out for Michelle's right hook," William half-jokingly warned. "I've seen her use it, it's pretty mean."

Kirill pulled the handle, grabbed his duffel and clambered out. "If I don't turn up for work on Monday, you know why."

"If you're not in by ten, I'll start calling the local morgues." William's tone turned solemn again. "Don't worry. You're gonna be fine. Just listen to her, show you understand how she feels, admit you were wrong, tell her what she's been waiting to hear."

"I will."

Kirill pushed the door shut, picked his duffel up by the strap and started his long walk up to the house. He stopped on the way to briefly talk to Michelle, then, his head hanging slightly lower, continued until he reached the door. He paused again, summoning some much-needed courage, then slipped inside.

It was like watching a prisoner transfer take place—one going in and two coming out—except in leafy, suburban McLean instead of on the Glienecke Bridge.

Michelle opened the rear passenger door to allow Andrew to scramble in, then took a moment to help him with his booster seat and belt.

"Hey, bud," William said to his son. "Been a real busy night. You doing okay?"

Andrew's response was a nod and a jaw-breaking yawn—he was close to falling asleep on his feet.

"Let's get you home, put you to bed, okay?"

He realized then how tired he was himself. Now that the adrenaline rush and Kirill-induced crisis was over, he was more than ready to hit the sack.

Michelle joined him in the front, leaning over to give him a kiss. "Hey," she murmured.

"Hey, yourself. How's Kate?"

"Scared and angry, ready to throw some knives and dishes at Kirill, but she'll be okay." She turned to find and fasten her belt.

He cranked the engine and slipped the car into drive. "What did you say to Kirill when the two of you passed on the path?"

"Told him to put his grovelling shoes on, and that if he _ever_ does something as stupid as this again, he won't have to worry about his girlfriend's reaction, because I'll hire someone to kill him myself."

William's brows shot into his hair. "Since when do you know how and where to hire a hitman?"

" _I_ don't, but I'm pretty sure my mother does."

"Your _mother_?"

She looked confused. "My mother, yeah."

"Should probably remember that."

"Yeah, you should."

He jerked his chin at the house. "You know what state of mind Kate's in. You think it's gonna work out okay?"

"I do, yeah." Her mouth set in a disapproving line. "Assuming Kirill gets his shit together."

"He will."

"You seem pretty sure of that."

"He knows he's made a huge mistake. Trust me. He's not gonna mess up that much again."

"He shouldn't have messed up that much in the first place."

"He's only human, hon. We all make mistakes. Even you," He grinned at her—she rolled her eyes. "Kirill's more or less been on his own since he was sixteen years old. He hasn't always had the best role models for how to make good decisions, _or_ for how to be a good man."

She sighed, conceding the point. "There is that, yeah."

"We ready to leave?"

"Nobody's thrown the Ikea recliner through the living room window yet, so I take that to mean it's okay to go." She waved him forward. "Let's head home, crack open a couple of beers, put the sleepy munchkin to bed."

William glanced in the rear-view mirror, and smiled as he saw the sleepy munchkin in question was already out for the count.

He waited for an upcoming truck to pass, signalled and pulled out into the road. "Kinda feel ready for bed myself," he said, clamping down on a yawn. "Been a pretty demanding day."

"Why don't you have a lie-in tomorrow? Think you deserve it, after everything you dealt with tonight." She patted his thigh. "You sleep on, I'll get up to deal with the kids."

"Is that all I get?" he asked.

She arched a perfectly manicured brow. "What do you mean, is that all you get?"

"Don't get me wrong, a lie-in's nice, but…"

"But, what?"

His lips twitched. "If I ask nicely, will you put _me_ to bed as well?"


End file.
